June 19, 2012

Recently I have been ill, not I’ll no matter how much my iPad refuses to believe me. But as any respectable pet owner will tell you, in the depths of unquenchable loneliness, bordome and throat infections, comes a certain desire.
Don’t get your hopes up, I didn’t bugger my dog. I did, however, introduce the little scamp to the concept of being praised for licking the withered, wince worthy sack between his legs.
Why? Not a shitting clue. Retrospectively, not the smartest of plans, though absolutely hilarious.
I have a sausage dog (happy little things, avoid at all cost) so when he feels the urge to lick his business, it’s quite awkward for him. If only he had some leverage… Fortunately he did! In the form of my mother. Propping himself against her, he inspiringly boldly began licking away. After three days of praise every time he does it, he was just as shocked as I was (lie) when he was halted.
Today, after tea, you didn’t need to know that, me and mum watched the dog and she brought up the idea of the V-E-T-S to try to stop my dog licking itself. I admitted my part in doggles new addiction and explained that sometimes daytime television drives a man mad. All is well and the dog is the happiest we’ve ever seen him.

The moral of the story is, you can teach an old dog new tricks, if that trick involves his balls.

December 26, 2011

is how I wish I could begin this. But instead I sit on the edge of the bed with the big question swirling through my mind all in a

swound

.
The question isn’t said on one knee, well, it could be… If you’re French. Here we stand up to say, ‘what if?’. But, not today. Well, okay, some of the day.

Waiting for the 11a to take me out of the city pit I suddenly realised with massive catharsis, she could be mine. But of course nobody is without history and suddenly my history came back to sink their canines, deep, into my right buttock. The ex. I’m sure that, if anybody reads this introverted tripe, the bi syllabic phrase resonates like dropping a whale into placid water. Suddenly, through my grating teeth, I breathe, ‘what if?’ when pregnancy is brought up.

This is where this wallowing gets as interesting as it ever will.

So, let’s introduce the ex, for privacy (loathing and sarcasm) further known as, madame ex. Broken up longer than we were together, I poetically pet name her, ‘psycho’. I say pet name, it’s medical too.

So through my magnificent, new found happiness that’s riddled with tremors of love, much like the Spanish inquisition, Madame ex unexpectedly reappears. Now, this manipulative hell spawn can end any relationship I could ever have with frightening professionalism and accuracy. Hold my hand, and imagine James bond using a sniper with bollocks for ammunition in a chris ryan novel, where bullets always find a target. But she proposed a new twist this time. Exciting, no? Correct, No.

Is she pregnant? She’s lied about worse, with greater accuracy as well. But what if she isn’t lying? As my body takes my brain under its wing in the foetal position (ironic), the need to cry and eat banana sandwiches returns along with the longing to resume that purity. I’ve walked seventeen years of life and now I’ve apparently procreated?

I’m drinking red wine, not because I like to look civilised and give off that,’ I’m potentially pompous’ stench. Oh no. It’s merely the last drops of the true liquid gold left in the house. Screw oil. I wouldn’t want to drink that. Again. But what is this? I’ve had my first steps but are the following weeks the first steps to being a man? My brain flagellates with thoughts of finance and the thoughts of Rachel. She makes me laugh instead of two years of intolerable oppression and in a ghastly cliche manner, gives me purpose. Every day is a challenge to see her, to hold her, to kiss her, to hear the laugh that made angels stop playing.

But now I’ve procured thoughts about being in the company of usurers who themselves are in debt to avarice, using me to fund their gold hoard.

Joni Mitchell sang,

child with a child, pretending

. It looks like that’s what I’m heading to. Life is long enough for this to all wash over, but its too long for me to live another day under a thumbs shadow. Rachel is my lifeline, saving grace and grande burning flame. The day I met her, I couldn’t believe my luck. Kate bush sang,

why should I love you?

because you were born to, ms bush. Like I was born to cuddle Rachel, asleep, me awake, not sleeping all night just to have not waisted a single holy second with her. Being without her draws this attack in my heart that feels truculent and wild. I don’t care about Madame ex. You’re not pregnant and you’re not what I loved. Immaturity and you’re refusal to show your true colours like cindi lauper drew me to you. But the most astonishing flower has just grown in my garden, and god I want to take care of it.

Say and do what you like Madame ex.
Life’s too long for this to have worth. Come clean about the pregnancy lie and let me find the freedom to display true, pure, love.

Imagine this as inception and soon you will have the idea to rest the chicane, have your own love, and appreciate mine.